by Cora Kenborn
Telling me he was European royalty, or that he had a freezer full of blonde co-eds with big mouths would’ve shocked me less than knowing he worked for Tate & Cane.
Niall Mackay is my in. Three rejection letters would only lead to a fourth, and The Bitch would sooner wrestle in a cobra pit than help me. My one option left had sat across from me, dangling opportunity like a carrot.
Knowing what I’m about to do, I start rationalizing my actions to myself. Sure, it’s technically a lie of omission, but it’s not like I’m willingly deceiving him, and it’s not like he’s a shining rose of innocence in all this. I never told him Preston was mine; he’d just assumed. It’s his fault for assuming, right? I never actually verified his assumption, I just didn’t deny it.
Technically, that isn’t a full-blown lie. It’s more like a lie-ette. You can’t come back from a huge lie, but lie-ettes are explainable. Besides, this isn’t all about my career gains. Niall’s getting something out of this charade too, and despite our unconventional meeting, I kind of like the guy. I’m interested in what he has to say, and not just listening to that sexy Irish accent—although I really wouldn’t mind hearing it while horizontal and sweaty.
I don’t even recognize myself around him. I smile. I lean into him. I bat my freaking eyelashes. When was last time I batted anything at anyone? Did I even do it right, or did he think I’d lost a contact lens?
No, this is wrong.
I know it’s wrong. As I squeeze the life out of my phone, staring at it like it has all the answers in the world, I know it’s wrong. A decent person would call him and cancel the date, blurt out the truth, and then change their number.
That’s brave, right? Certainly not the chickenshit way out.
But if he knew how hard I’d worked—how one word from someone on the inside could change the rest of my life—he’d understand. He seems sympathetic to my plight as a single mom, and this ruse of ours hurts no one. Honestly, what’s the harm in it?
I know I’m not really a single mom. There’s no plight. Okay, there’s a plight, but it’s me and my aversion to panhandling for crusts of bread.
I sit and mull it all over. The longer I hold my phone, the more I know what I need to do. I’ve waited too damn long for this and worked too hard to ignore an opportunity when it falls into my lap.
I’m going to accept the invitation to attend a Tate & Cane gala with Niall Mackay as his fiancée. It’s a win-win. Niall needs me on his arm to keep the vulture lady away. I need to be on his arm to get a foot in the door to my future. I’ll figure out the rest along the way.
I hope.
***
The next morning, I stare at the text, my toothbrush hanging out as paste foams around my mouth
Niall: To make this look good, we should get to know each other a little better. What do you say we go out just the two of us? No kids.
This is where life throws a curveball I don’t expect. I know I willingly gave him my number, so, logically, the fact that he followed up with a text shouldn’t shock me. However, I’m still wrapping my head around the fact that I’m now someone’s fake fiancée. Nobody said anything about dates. And without kids? Forget it, Preston is my safety net.
Rinsing out my mouth in the bathroom sink, I wrap my long, naturally curly hair into a messy bun on top of my head and secure it with a clip. I need reinforcements, but only one person comes to mind to talk to, unfortunately. With my heart pounding in my chest, I tear down the hallway, screaming for Shelby at the top of my lungs.
I barely turn the corner when her bedroom door flies open and she stands in the doorway, one palm braced against the frame and the other holding a lamp like a sword. Her shoulder-length red hair is matted across her face and stuck to her lips as her eyes widen and scan the room for something to smash.
“What? Fuck, is someone in the apartment? Are you hurt? Don’t just stand there, Laken, for God’s sake, get the phone and call the cops!”
“Huh? No, it’s him.” I hold up my phone as if that explains everything.
Shelby lowers the lamp, raking her hair out of her face as she blinks at me. “Who’s him?”
“I got a text.”
“Is it about the murder?”
I shoot her a confused look. “There was no murder.”
“There’s going to be,” she says with a growl, her face darkening.
In the three years Shelby and I have lived together, she’s always been the level head to my neurotic. Our friendship is contractual. I pay half the rent and so does she, ensuring we both don’t sleep on a bench in Central Park. Shelby usually doesn’t have time for things like girl talk, smiling, or pleasantness in general. We’ve never been particularly close, and she never misses an opportunity to point out my tendency to fly off the handle, but I need to confide in someone outside the situation who’ll give it to me straight.
“I have a problem.”
“Shocker.”
“I’m serious, Shelby.”
“You have five minutes.”
“Does renting myself out make me a whore?” I ask, chewing my cheek.
Replacing the lamp, she rests her hands on her hips and sighs. “Laken? What the hell have you been doing when I’m at work?”
Bracing for her reaction, I squint one eye and let it rip. “I’m engaged.”
She reaches for my left hand, and inspecting my bare ring finger, she tilts her head to the side. “Come again?”
Relaying the entire story from the park, Shelby listens quietly. She nods at certain parts, and raises an eyebrow when I show her Niall’s texts and she sees his contact name as My Darling Big Dick Fiancé.
When I finish, I take a huge breath and throw my hands out to the side. “Well?”
“This is going to backfire on you, Laken. Lying is never a good idea. Eventually that shit comes back on you.”
“I know,” I admit.
“But still,” she says thoughtfully. “It’s an in with Tate & Cane. And God knows you’re sure as hell not going to get an interview by yourself.”
“Your confidence in me is astounding, thanks.”
“Well, it’s not like the guy is a creep, right? He has a kid. That has to count for something.”
“Sure, I mean, we shared a few stories, and I managed not to end up a missing person on the evening news.” Pressing my thumbs against my temples, I frantically pace the room. “But I don’t know him. Shelby, he could still be a homicidal killer hell bent on stuffing me down a well and making a woman suit out of my skin.”
She rolls her eyes and moves past me into the living room. “You’ve been watching Silence of The Lambs again, haven’t you?”
I wave a hand, dismissing her. “Beside the point.”
“Okay, you agreed to this fake fiancée crap, and this is your chance to get in with Tate & Cane.” Flouncing onto the couch, she props her feet on the coffee table. “You’re not actually marrying the guy. What are you really scared of?”
“I don’t know. Yesterday it seemed like a good idea, but today…I don’t know.”
“He’s not really roping you into the whole ‘till death do you part’ stuff, you know that, right?” she offers as I sit down beside her and throw my head against the back of the couch. “Besides, he sounds like a hot guy with a good job. How bad can he be? The man just wants to get your stories straight, and from the sound of it, you need to get laid more than you need to worry about the consequences of what you’ve already agreed to.” Grabbing the remote control, she turns on the television and effectively ends our conversation by pressing the volume button until I can barely hear myself think.
With my phone in my hand, I think about what she said and it starts to make sense. What exactly do I have to lose? All I need to do is get to know the guy and lie to my future employers that I’m head over heels in love with him.
Piece of cake.
Besides, if there’s a little side action along the way, that’s just a bonus.
As some talk show rambles o
n at a decibel about to shatter my eardrum, I text Niall back and hold my breath as I hit send.
Me: No kids—no fiancée. What kind of woman do you think I am? You think you can just put a ring on my finger and I’m that easy? Oh, wait. That’s right. You didn’t. Meet me at Heckscher again at noon.
Niall: I don’t know; are you that easy? Might be fun finding out for myself. Keep up that smart mouth and you can forget about a honeymoon to Mexico. Oh, and since we’re throwing out demands, make it near the island at Turtle Pond at one p.m. Love, your Darling Big Dick Fiancé. Did you program that shite in like I told you to?
I let out a scream and throw my phone across the room, because although I’m pissed at him, I know for a fact that I’ll be there promptly at 12:55.
***
With Preston in tow, I show up at 12:45, hoping to scope out a spot and watch him as he arrives. The area of Turtle Pond he selected is a bit secluded, and it makes me wonder if he chose this location for the ease of hauling me off in the van I still imagined him having.
I mean, let’s be honest…I don’t know the guy. If I’m getting myself into this farce, I need to know exactly what kind of man I’m tangling myself up with. It’s purely an information-gathering venture and has nothing to do with wanting to watch the way his muscular body moves with the ease of a man who knows his worth, or the way his mouth quirks up in a crooked smile every time he mentions the word fiancée. And it’s especially not the way his sexy Irish accent just rolls off his tongue.
Shading my eyes from the sun, I glance around, but not seeing him anywhere, I decide to get comfortable while I wait. Completely focused on spreading out the quilt so Preston can play with the action figures he insisted on bringing, I don’t hear him sneak up behind me.
“Daydreaming again? I wouldn’t make a habit of that in public places, Laken. Anyone can just walk up and take advantage of you.”
Jumping, I let out a yelp and twist around, falling on my ass. I know I have that guilty look in my eyes. You know, the one just like when your roommate knocks on your door seconds before you turn off your Magic Wand vibrator? Oh, that shit happened to me late last night after having a particularly animated and detailed dream about Niall. I tried to mask the chainsaw sound, but it’s kind of hard to do when you have the most archaic vibrator from 1972 burning your clit off. Okay, honestly, this thing isn’t even a real vibrator and probably needs to be retired, but I’m not one to just walk my ass into a sex toy store and peruse the aisles like I’m buying fertilizer at Walmart. However, after Shelby narrowed her eyes this morning and asked me if I’d successfully chiseled my way to China, maybe I’ll do some online shopping and see what I can find.
Muscles twitch in my jaw as I stare up at him. “Present company included?”
He grins and heaves a long sigh as he extends an arm and hands me one of two half-melted chocolate ice cream cups. “Again, we need to work on your pretending to like me, Laken. This woman we’re trying to convince is going to see straight through you if you don’t up your skills.”
“Chocolate?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.
“Just keep licking.” His grin widens with the blatant innuendo. “You’ll learn to appreciate the taste.” The wind picks up, blowing through his messy hair. He absentmindedly runs his fingers through it and offers me his hand.
Holy fuck.
Okay, time out for a minute. Back to my rom com fetish. There’s a point in the movie where the heroine suddenly sees the hero and a burst of sunlight erupts from the back of her head while cheesy-ass music starts playing in the background. This is the viewer’s clue that this poor dumb girl has finally realized that the geeky guy she’s been palling around with for half her life isn’t so geeky. He’s got muscles on top of rippling muscles and a ten-inch cock that seems to have grown overnight.
You feel me?
Well, I’ve only known Niall Mackay a day and a half, but cue the cymbals and drums because even though I have no business gawking at him the way I am, he just looks too delicious not to fully appreciate. Dressed in khaki cargo shorts, a white graphic t-shirt with what I assume to be some intricate Irish crest on the front, and tan boat shoes, the whole outfit seems casual yet somehow hotter than if he sported a three-piece suit with a designer power tie.
And this is the moment I realize how much trouble I’m in with this so-called arrangement of ours. While I’ve prided myself for six years on being able to keep my eye on the prize and maintain a strategy of not getting hung up on any guy longer than it takes to sneak out of his bed in the middle of the night, Niall Mackay is blowing said strategy all to hell.
I accept his hand, and as Sophie and Preston make their way to the water’s edge, Niall lifts a paper bag, smirking at my less than enthused expression. “Are you ready for some intense family bonding?”
“Is this where you break out the chloroform and we find one of our very own to kidnap?”
“You’re never going to let that one go, are you? No, I thought we could have some fun with the kids and race some paper boats while we go over some points that might come up at the gala. You do remember the whole reason for our hanging out, right?”
“Of course, I do,” I snap, trying as best as I can not to concentrate on the way his forearms ripple as he grips the handle of the bag. “Paper boats?”
“Wow, you really are a city girl, aren’t you?” He grins, pinning me with the sexiest smile I’ve ever laid eyes on. When I continue to stare at him in that get to the point way, he pulls out a shitload of newspaper, duct tape, and a handful of different colored Sharpies and points toward the water. “I’ll handle the construction, you man the decorating station. We’re going to make paper boats out of this shite and race them in the water.”
“Can’t we just let the kids play while we hash this out?”
Light flickers in his eyes, and he looks like he’s trying not to laugh at me. “Why? Are you scared I’ll win?”
Did you catch that? I did too, and although my more rational side tells me he’s baiting me, the other side—the one that can’t seem to back away from a challenge no matter how small the chances of me winning actually are—fist pumps the air like Judd Nelson at the end of The Breakfast Club and dives in headfirst.
Grabbing the Sharpies out of his hand, I hold them in my hand like a machete. “I’m scared you’ll embarrass yourself and cry like a little girl when you lose, yes.”
“Okay.” He draws out the word and stares at me like he’s trying hard to figure out my angle. “I like a confident woman. Care to make it interesting?”
“How so?”
“If your boat wins, I’ll get you an interview with my friend, Vince, before the gala.”
Hello. There’s an offer I can’t refuse. “Keep talking, I’m liking these terms.” Then the alternative hits me. “Wait, on the off chance that a miracle happens, what if your boat wins?”
His head turns and his heated brown eyes find mine, ensnaring them in a hold I can’t look away from. “You have to kiss me. And, what’s more? You have to like it.”
Somehow the thought of kissing him overrides my good sense and my head bobs up and down like it’s not even attached to my neck before I know what I’m doing.
“Then it’s settled,” he says, sealing the deal with a final nod and turning his attention toward the project at hand.
I shouldn’t be amazed that Niall is somewhat crafty. He’s a photographer, and artistry certainly runs in his blood. However, as we all sit on the blanket, I watch his patience with Sophie and Preston with awe. It’s mesmerizing to watch and a strange warmth fills my chest as he shows them step by step how to expertly fold the newspaper to form the boat to ensure that it floats. Suddenly, he’s not just the outrageously hot guy who has offered me the deal of a lifetime. He’s a real person. He’s a father. He’s someone I could see a woman easily falling for. Even me.
As the kids squeal and run off holding their new boats like their most prized possession, Niall turns to me. “Let’
s get some basics out of the way.”
“Like my middle name and where I’m from?”
“Well, I was thinking more like whether you sleep in lingerie or nothing at all.”
I stare at him in shock, my thinly held self-control starting to crack. “Are you always this forward?”
“Yes,” he says, smirking that damn adorable smile that makes me forget why the hell I’m mad in the first place. “But mainly, I like making your cheeks turn that beautiful shade of red.”
I lower my chin to my chest. “I don’t blush.”
“Oh, you blush, all right.” Amusement creases the corners of his eyes. “Do I make you nervous, Laken?”
“Paige.”
“Excuse me?”
“My middle name is Paige, and I grew up in a little town right outside of Boca Raton, Florida.” Standing, I dust off the grass stuck to the back of my legs and nod toward the water. “And if the inquisition about my nocturnal habits is over, we’ve got two antsy kids ready to kick your ass as much as I am. Is the fleet ready to set sail?”
Gathering the makeshift boats in his arms, he calls out after me. “What about the sleepwear?”
Pausing halfway to the water, I toss a grin over my shoulder. “Full flannel pajamas.”
Which is a lie. I sleep in the nude. A small part of me hopes maybe someday soon, he’ll find out for himself.
Forty-five minutes and twelve paper boats later, all three of Niall’s paper armada sail flawlessly across the water while one of mine is resting in a watery grave at the bottom of the pond, another is floating upside down, and the third is hung up on some overgrown grass by the bank. As much as I’ve lusted over the man the past twenty-four hours, and almost set fire to my own vagina trying to masturbate him off my mind, the idea of conceding to him isn’t high on my priority list.
Standing by the water’s edge, I contemplate taking a swim to save my last hope at winning this bet, when I feel warm breath on my neck.
“Looks like you’ve got yourself in quite the situation here.”